Beneath A Moonlit Sky
by bensara91513
Summary: After Christine and Raoul drifted away on the lake to start their new life together, Erik sails off to another world to start a new life of his own. But even with his love a world away, the wind and the waves will not let him forget her.


_**For those of you who read my previous story, welcome back! I am still writing my next full length fiction-The Secret Door-which I hope you will read sometime soon, but I wanted to share this little one shot with you, inspired by a trip to the beach, and a very fun conversation with a Phantom friend (HI, EMCLucky13!) I would like to thank, as always, my dear beta FantomPhan33 for her advice and suggestions.**_

_**This is my own little spin on Beneath a Moonless Sky from Love Never Dies, only in this story, there is a moon, and, well, Christine finally sees. **_

_**As you can imagine, this story is rated M for mature subject matter toward the end. If you would like to read it , but do not like M passages, I will bold the M section, in case you wish to skip that part. **_

_**I hope you enjoy. . .**_

**Beneath a Moonlit Sky**

_The day starts_

_The day ends_

_Time crawls by_

The moon was high in the sky, and it seemed that Erik could see forever as he gazed across the crashing waves, the ocean breeze blowing in his hair.

Almost four thousand miles.

Three weeks by sea.

The other side of the world.

And yet none of that would matter—none of that would keep him from her—if it were not for the unsurpassable distance that first existed between his heart and hers. The love _she_ felt for the vicomte is what truly held her a world away—and love her though he may, he knew he would never be able to close that gap. He would never do more than dream of her—her eyes the glow of the starlight, her voice a whisper on the waves, her lips a kiss on the wind. These were the only connections he would have to a heart he gave away years ago, a soul that had shattered without her.

Another gust of wind, and he tightened his cloak about him, trying to shut out the cold, knowing all the while, that its source was deep within him. It emanated from the emptiness that filled his chest—the _nothing_ that had saturated his being since he'd seen her drift away with that. . .that. . . handsome, debonair, rich _man_ that she loved, leaving this hideous, broken, lost _monster_ behind.

The news had been printed in the paper he had found lying on the pier this evening. Weeks old, it must have arrived on the most recent ship from France, discarded by its proper owner—just another piece of useless refuse. And yet it had the power to destroy him anew. He held the torn article in his hands. The bans which announced the impending nuptials of Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny to Mademoiselle Christine Da'ae. The accompanying photograph showed her standing next to her nobleman, his arm around her shoulders, her hand resting on his chest. She smiled, and yet, her eyes looked. . .haunted—the legacy, he was sure, of having been terrorized by the opera ghost, and forced into making the most horrific choice of her life. Her freedom or her lover's life. That had been his demand. That had been his cruel, dark ultimatum.

She had chosen him.

And yet, in her eyes-_oh God_, he thought to himself, brushing his lips with his own icy fingers, _in her kiss_, it had been clear. Her love was for Raoul.

And so he had released her from the promise she should never have had to make. He sent her away with the boy who held her heart. It was not _her_ fault that she had taken his own heart with her as well.

He allowed the next burst of wind to carry the newsprint from him—out over the undulations which could never carry him home. For her heart was his only refuge, and the doors had forever been barred to him. "Christine" he moaned once more in agony. Night after night, as he gazed at the waves lapping on the shore before rolling out again to the sea, her name became his sole refrain. "Ah, Christine. . ." would spill forth from his misshapen lips as he sat on the beach, knees curled to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs. He would lower his head to his knees and watch as the tears disappeared into the velvet blackness of his enveloping cape. "_My_ Christine." No longer his. No, _never_ his. Always the Vicomte's—now more than ever. The wedding should have been held weeks ago. She was truly now a Viscountess. It was fitting—as she had always been royalty within his heart.

"_Angel?_" He heard her voice come to him on the waves.

"Oh, Christine," he answered back in a shattered whisper, "Even now you haunt your phantom?"

"Angel!" the voice was stronger now, and it seemed to come from behind him, not from the water. "Oh, Angel, I've found you!"

He turned and an image of his only love was there, before him. Christine. _His_ Christine. Her blue eyes glistening with unshed tears, her mahogany curls swirling in the breeze. Only it was impossible. He knew the sea was full of spirits—creatures even stranger than himself—that strove to steal the breath of men, the very animus that enlivened their beings. "Have you come, cruel siren, to claim my soul?" He questioned in sad defeat. "You are too late—for it was gone moment I first looked upon Christine." He began to turn away, but the enchantress crouched before him.

"Angel, it's _me_. Christine. _Your_ Christine." Her eyes were so earnest before him, seeming to look down into his very soul. She reached into his cloak and grasped his hands, and with a jolt, Erik realized that she was real. His imagination may have been able to summon her voice, her eyes, even her feathery kiss, but it could not conjure the warm flesh that held him now—the fingers that cradled his hand so gently.

"Christine. . ." he gazed into the crystalline orbs from which tears now trailed. "_How_?"

"I thought I'd never find you, my Angel," she sobbed fully now. "I've searched so long. But I _had_ to come. I had to try."

"Christine, I don't. . ." he shook his head in wonder. Though he knew she was true flesh and blood, he could not comprehend the words that she was saying. "I don't understand."

"I went back, for you Angel. As soon as I could get away, I looked for you beneath the opera. The mob. . ." her breath hitched in her chest, and she had to take a moment before she could go on. "They said they'd killed you. They said they'd beaten you and drowned you in the lake. But I. . .I could not believe them. I'd _feel_ it," she vowed, using one of her hands to clutch her own breast, "if you were gone.

"So I went back. Night after night I would slip away and hasten back to the opera house, wondering if perhaps that would be the night you would return. The mob destroyed everything, Angel. Your music. . .your masterful, beautiful music—all tatters, all shreds." The tears rushed from her eyes, as she remembered the shambles in which they had left his beautiful domain. "Your instruments—strewn about, shattered, broken. It _hurt_ me to see it, Angel. To know that it was all _my_ fault."

"_No_, Mon Ange'," he whispered, shaking his head. "You must not blame yourself."

"But _I_ made a grave mistake, Angel," she lamented, her eyes locked with his. "I _left_ you."

Erik struggled to make sense of what she had just said. She thought leaving him had been a _mistake_? It was the only rational, logical thing she could have done. He had loosed her from her bond. He had _let_ her go. "No, Mon Ange'" he countered, willing her to see reason—to stop blaming herself for his wretched circumstance. "I _released_ you. I told you to go. . ." he swallowed hard as he struggled to utter the phrase which threatened to choke him, "to be with the man you loved."

"But don't you see?" she entreated him, between sobs, "I could not be with the man I loved if I was not with you."

The air escaped his chest in a rush, and he could barely wheeze out "The Vicomte,"so bereft of breath were his lungs.

She shook her head, looking down. "I cared for Raoul, Angel. He was a dear childhood friend—the last living, breathing connection I had to my dear Papa. And I was afraid," she glanced up to meet his eyes, and she saw his head begin to turn away. She reached out a hand to cup his cheek and bring him back to her, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Not of you, my Angel. _Never_ of you. Of _me_. Of _us_. Of these _feelings_. . .Angel, they were so strong. I did not know why my breath would not come when I was with you, or why it felt as if my heart would beat out of my chest. I did not understand the fever that took hold whenever I would hear your voice. Raoul felt comfortable—familiar. But you. . . Angel _you_ were everything new, and strange and wonderful. And I was not strong enough to see." She sadly shook her head. "Angel, I could not see you until you were gone. And that was why I looked and looked and prayed so hard that you would come back. But you never did." She looked down and took another shuddering breath. "And that is why. . ."

"You married de Chagny." Erik could feel the anger bubbling in his core. Twice now, he had pushed her into the Vicomte's arms—once by letting her go, once by leaving her alone.

"No," she asserted firmly, her gaze resolute. "I did not marry Raoul."

"But," Erik began, his eyes narrowed in confusion, "I saw the announcement in the paper. Just today, I found it, and. . ."

"The announcement was made," Christine nodded her head, gently, "But the marriage did not happen. I. . ." she paused, as if steeling herself for her next words. "I left him at the altar." Erik's eyebrows jumped as he stared at her in shock. When he said nothing, she continued. "I walked down that aisle, Angel, listening to the music that beckoned—the tenor singing the _Ave_, who was far inferior to you. I wore the gown, I reached the altar, I looked at my groom, but when it was time to say the vows, I only saw your face.

"I ran out of the cathedral, leaving my dearest friend in shame, leaving a gawking, muttering crowd. But I _couldn't_ Angel," she began to weep again, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. "I could not promise to Raoul what was no longer my own. My heart, my body, my _soul—_they were not mine to give." Her crying quieted and she looked directly in his eyes. "They already belonged to you."

Erik felt himself shaking. Had she said that, or was he dreaming? He pinched himself, feeling the sting. Not good enough, for pain was a part of his daily existence. No, slightly emboldened by her words, he reached out a trembling palm and touched her face. He drew in a sharp gasp when he felt her warm, soft cheek lean into his tentative caress, her eyes closing as if savoring the sensation of his hand on her. "I ran, of course, to the opera house," she continued, her voice a hoarse whisper. "Once again, I lay in the ruins of your lair, weeping in a wedding dress. Only this time, I did not cry out of fear. This time I mourned the sweetness I would have known—I _should_ have known—if only I had not left my Angel.

"I crawled over to what remained of the swan shaped bed—the one on which you had placed me so gently, that first night in your home. I lay there for what seemed like hours—on what could have been our marriage bed—on what should have been _our_ wedding night. Alone and lost—only half alive without my Angel.

"And that was how she found me. Madame Giry."

"Antoinette. . ." the words left Erik's mouth in a whisper.

Christine nodded. "She had been at the wedding, of course, and she had seen the spectacle I caused. She said she knew exactly where I would run and had sought me out as soon as she could get away. She held me while I sobbed and told her everything—that I had made a mistake—that I loved you and that I never should have been with Raoul in the first place. And I cried harder when I told her you were gone, and I might never find you."

"She stroked my hair and said. . ."

"_Hush_, my child." Erik finished her thought, practically hearing Antoinette's voice in his head.

Despite herself, Christine chuckled softly. "You know her well, Angel."

He nodded once, "She is. . .a friend."

Christine nodded too, shifting her head slightly, to place a small kiss on his palm, which was still cupping her cheek. His heart thrilled at the tender gesture as he listened to Christine finish her story.

"She told me you had gone to the new world, and you were safe on a small island off the shores of New York. I begged her to help me get to you, for I would not be truly living until I once again saw your face and heard your voice. She made me promise—made me _swear_ that I would never again hurt you, and I assured her, Angel, that to hurt you now would be akin to hurting myself. I had done enough of that to last a lifetime."

"And so she told you." It was a statement, not a question, for Erik knew that no one could ever have found him if not without Antoinette's help. This island across the Atlantic had afforded him the quiet, the solitude he had told Antoinette he'd sought. But not the peace—never the peace, for without Christine, his spirit would always be at war with itself. Now she was here, however, to calm his storm.

"She did, and I left on the next ship. I just _had_ to find you, Angel." Her eyes softened now that her tale of sorrow was told, and she once again reached her hands forward, touching his face—one hand caressing cold porcelain, the other, warm, burning flesh. "And now I have." She leaned in close to him, and the sea breeze once again kicked up and tickled his face with her curls. Their lips were but a breath away, and her eyes were half closed as she spoke softly, "I'm sorry, my Angel. I made a terrible, terrible mistake. Please forgive me."

"How can you even _think_ to beg me for forgiveness, Mon Ange'?" Erik's voice was deep and husky with her nearness. "You know I can deny you nothing."

"Then, do not deny me this," she whispered, as she leaned forward and joined her lips with his.

Erik did not move for the first, blessed moment, as he became aware of her soft pressure on his lips, her breath mingling with his, her body leaning forward, brushing subtly against him. The world had stopped turning—there was nothing—no one—except Christine. Tentatively, his hands trembling wildly as he did so, he wrapped his arms around her, closing them finally on her back, feeling her shudder a little at his touch. Next he felt her lips begin to move slowly on his, and quite on their own, his lips moved with her. The soft sigh with which he was rewarded when they did so was a treasure greater than the rarest pearl, and he felt Christine shift closer, as she wrapped her own arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair. The kiss lingered a few sweet moments longer, and Erik felt his fear slip away, melted by the warmth of her embrace.

Reluctantly, Erik removed his lips from hers, only to gently trail kisses on her languid neck. When he heard her quiet moan, Erik could not resist a sigh of his own. "Ah Christine," he murmured against her skin, as he nuzzled her tenderly. "I love you."

"Angel," she practically sobbed in delight, "I love you too."

Abruptly, Erik pulled away, and held her shoulders so that she had to look at him. The daze of their kiss shattered, she held his gaze.

"Christine," he said firmly, despite the joy and desire he felt building within him. "I am _not_ an angel. If this is to. . ." he stuttered, because he barely even knew what _this_ was. "If _we_ are to. . .," _were_ they a we? Exasperated, he blurted out, "I am a _man_, Christine. No more."

"No less," she countered, her voice warm and golden as honey, as she trailed her finger down his exposed cheek.

He closed his eyes and whimpered in response to her feather soft touch. "What shall I call you, if not Angel?" she asked, in silvery tones.

"My name is Erik." he hummed, lost in her caress.

"Erik," she purred.

He had never heard music in the name before, but issued forth from her lips, it was the most glorious aria, a love song most tender, the sweetest lullaby. He reveled in the symphony she enticed from those two small syllables, as she graced his cheek with gentle kisses, whispering his name again, and then again. Her finger trailed lazily down his neck, and as it reversed directions for its return trip, Erik startled when he felt her hand at the seam of his mask. "Christine, no." he told her, grasping her hand gently in his, panic filling his eyes. "_Please_ no. The moonlight—you'll _see_."

"I have seen this face once. . .twice. . .and a thousand times in my sleep," she said, looking into his eyes, hoping to quell his fear.

A rueful cynicism was apparent in his unshielded features. "In your nightmares, then."

"In my _dreams_," she corrected him. "My dreams of comfort, my dreams of love." She placed another kiss on his trembling lips. "I want to kiss _all_ of you, Erik," she beseeched. "Please, do not deny me this."

Once again, they were a breath apart, and Erik was melting. "Nothing, Mon Ange'," he whispered, powerless to resist her.

Before removing the barrier that hid his face from her, Christine looked deeply in Erik's eyes. "If I cannot call you Angel, Erik, you must not use that term for me either. I am a _woman_. No more."  
Suddenly, a surge of desire hit Erik like one of the waves on the sea that rolled before them. He placed his hands on her waist and pulled her roughly to him. "No less," he echoed her earlier assertion, and claimed her lips with his own, the kiss more passionate this time, the movements more intense. When they separated, each gasping for air, Christine locked her gaze with his as she swiftly removed his mask. She reached up and placed her hand on his deformity—the one that had once threatened the very bliss she now possessed. She caressed it lovingly, pressing her fingers into each crevice, trailing over each protrusion. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek firmly, pressing his head against hers. When she pulled back and gazed at him once more, she saw tears pooling in his beautiful eyes, and she whispered once again, "I love you, Erik. _All_ of you."

"Ah, Christine," he gasped as he crushed her to him, "_My_ Christine."

"Yours," she nodded, tears once again glistening in her own eyes.

All at once, Erik pulled away. Christine saw him unfastening his cloak, his fluttering hands fiddling with the collar of his shirt. After a moment, he pulled out a chain, on which he wore a diamond engagement ring—her ring—the one she had returned to him when she left him alone in his lair. Her heart clutched in her chest. Her ring—she thought it gone—lost to the frenzy of the mob.

"You kept it," she whispered, in awe and gratitude.

He nodded. "I've worn it around my neck since that day. . ." he paused and swallowed. That day was long ago, and his Christine was here with him now. That day could hurt him no more. "You once wore the Vicomte's ring around your neck to hide an engagement. I wear this ring around mine, to keep you with me—because it was all I ever thought I would have. But now, you're here—and I have more than I ever dreamed." Erik looked down and took a deep breath. "Christine, I once heard you promise the Vicomte one love, one lifetime. Now I ask you—would you pledge the same to me?"

"Oh Erik," she looked at him, her blue eyes glazed with tears, "I would promise that and so much more. For to you I vow one heart, one soul, and one passion," she leaned in closer to him, while never breaking his gaze, "to join our bodies one to the other forevermore. I love you Erik. I want you—forever."

With smoldering eyes, Erik slipped the ring upon her finger, and after gazing quickly at its glint in the moonlight, Christine buried her hands in Erik's thick black hair and pulled him to her for a kiss. **But this kiss was deeper than the ones they had just shared. Christine opened her lips on a sigh, and suddenly, his tongue was in her mouth, tasting her, claiming her as his own. She pulled him ever closer, deepening the kiss even more, until, breathless, they finally broke away. But then his lips were on her throat, blazing a sultry trail down to her collar bone. As Erik's palm traced the curves of her side, her hips, her breasts, he could not help but allow his thumb to drift out and flick her hardening nipple. "Erik," she moaned, throwing her head back in wonton pleasure.**

**"Christine," he panted, shocked by his own forwardness. "I'm sorry. I. . ."**

**"No," Christine stopped him with a kiss to his lips. "Please don't stop."**

**"Christine, are you certain?" he looked at her, eyes wide as he warred to keep in control of his ever more insistent body.**

**"I am absolutely certain, Erik." she gazed resolutely in his eyes.**

**"But, my love," he was trying so hard to be honorable, "We are not yet wed."**

**"But I am yours, Erik. Forever, I am yours." She placed another smoldering kiss upon his lips. "Can you deny me this?" she gently pushed the cloak off his shoulders, so that it lay behind them on the sand. Erik pulled her to him, laying them back on the soft, black fabric, as he began to fumble with the fastening on her gown, their lips dancing the whole time. When at last her bodice and corset were open, and her chemise pulled away, Erik trailed his palm along her creamy, full breast. When his fingers brushed her nipple, this time, without the barrier of fabric, Erik gasped as Christine arched up to him, a ragged cry of pleasure escaping her lips. "Oh, Christine," he sighed, as he buried his head between her breasts, rubbing their softness with his cheeks. He lifted his head, and sucked one taught nipple into his mouth, driving her wild with desire. Christine was frantically undoing the buttons on Erik's shirt, dragging her hands deliriously across his chest and his back, savoring the toned muscles which rippled beneath her fingers. When she felt his hands tug at her skirts, she lifted herself so that he could more easily pull them away. As she lay there, naked beneath him, she grappled with the fasteners on Erik's trousers, wanting desperately to feel all of his flesh beside her, against her, within her. Erik took pity on her, and helped with the closures, and when they were undone, Christine used her hands to push the meddling garments off his frame, allowing her fingers to glide over his firm rear and his muscled legs. As they held each other close, their hands taking intimate journeys upon each other's bodies, Christine could feel the length of Erik's arousal firm and hot against her. She reached down and gently touched it, provoking a guttural cry from from the lips of her love. "Christine," he growled, as she marveled how something so firm could have the texture of smooth, lush velvet. She lightly closed her hand around him and gave him a loving squeeze. She felt his body thrust forward toward her, and saw his face contort as he bit his lips together to hold back a shout. "Erik," she whispered, sensing that he could not wait much longer, "Make us one."**

**"Christine," he whimpered, and for a moment, all thoughts of pleasure left his mind. He had already tasted divinity with Christine this night, and he could stop right here and die a happy man. "I don't want to hurt you, my love."**  
**"From what I understand," she panted, aching to feel him next to her, above her, inside her, "A bit of pain cannot be avoided, because I give myself to you a virgin. But that pain will give over to pleasure, Erik, and I want that so much. I want _you_, so much."**

**His eyes glazed with passion, Erik whispered, "I love you, Christine," and moved himself atop of her. He gazed into her eyes as slowly, he joined them, feeling her stretch to accommodate him, stopping briefly when he felt her barrier. "Christine, are you _sure_?" he asked one last time.**

**"Erik," she begged, already feverish from the feeling of him partially inside her. "Don't stop."**

**He tightened his arms around her as he pushed forward that final length, breaking her barrier, claiming her as his own. He was perfectly still inside her, as he saw her face grimace in pain. "I love you, Christine. I love you so much, My Christine," he whispered again and again, trailing soft, fluttery kisses along her cheeks, her eyelids, her lips. The sensation of being inside her was like none he had ever known before, but it was overshadowed at the moment by his concern for her comfort. Had he hurt her? Had he _damaged_ her, like his mother had sworn he would damage everything he'd ever touch? No, he would _not_ hurt Christine—he _could_ not hurt her. Not his angel, his woman, his love.**

**After a moment, he felt Christine tentatively shift her hips against him. He searched her face for signs of discomfort, but he saw none. When she shifted against him once more, her lips let loose a sigh of pleasure. "Oh, Erik," she moaned, "It feels so good."**

**Her words were his undoing. He claimed her lips once more, closing his eyes as he began to move against her, within her. They soon found a rhythm that was all their own, and as the waves of the ocean crashed against the shore before them, the swells of their own passion crested and broke over them, leaving them languid and peaceful as the ocean breeze.**

For a time, Erik lay above her, their bodies still joined, just basking in the pleasure, in the passion he never thought he'd know. Christine could barely keep her eyes open, and he kissed her lids as she drifted off to sleep. He shifted to his side, still cradling her in his arms, and pulled the ends of his cloak around them, sheltering them from the cool night breezes, keeping them warm in the cocoon of their love. As she slept, he watched over her, and could not believe this great blessing with which he had been bestowed. Christine's words came back to him, "A bit of pain cannot be avoided. . .but that pain will give over to pleasure." It was his life. The pain he had suffered—the pain _they_ had endured, both together and apart—had given over to the pleasure and joy of this moment, and the certainty of their deep and passionate love. Forevermore, they would be together—one heart, one soul, a woman and a man. No more, and yet, no less.

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed it. I enjoyed writing it. As always, I'd love to hear from you! I will get back to The Secret Door now, so that you can read that sometime this century! :) (That will be a T rated story.)**


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